


Rearview

by ClaraxBarton



Category: Knives Out (2019), Supernatural
Genre: Light Dom/sub, M/M, Oral Sex, Pre-Series, Spanking, cross-over
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:15:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24083449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/pseuds/ClaraxBarton
Summary: Sam's off at Stanford and Dean's drawn this short straw for the newest job he and John are on. So Dean gets to pretend to be a cater-waiter and steal a human skin book from witches - gross and damnit - and, really, everything should have gone smooth and easy.It didn't.
Relationships: Benoit Blanc (Knives Out)/Dean Winchester
Comments: 17
Kudos: 60





	Rearview

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Flowerparrish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flowerparrish/gifts).
  * Inspired by [May the Best Man Win](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23539579) by [Flowerparrish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flowerparrish/pseuds/Flowerparrish). 



> Yeah, this pairing... probably has no business existing but it DOES and I want to just... wallow in it/them forever and ever and ever.

“I look ridiculous,” Dean groused.

From the driver’s seat of the truck, John Winchester looked over at his eldest son and smirked at the sight of him struggling to tuck a white dress shirt into his black trousers while still mostly sitting on the seat.

“At the moment, yeah,” John agreed.

Dean shot him a glare, which just made John chuckle.

“Why the hell am I playing the cater-waiter while you get to hit on rich ladies?” Dean whined, glaring over at John, already dressed in a black tuxedo, white shirt and black bowtie.

“Because there’s no way in hell I’m gonna put on that cute little vest,” John said and flicked a finger at the black vest that sat on the upholstery between them.

Dean finished shoving his shirt into his pants and gave the vest a glare.

“I fucking hate this, for the record,” he said as he picked up the vest and pulled it on with anger.

“Yeah, you mentioned that about a dozen times already.” Dean’s irritation with their roles and costumes was amusing, to be sure, but John’s focus was on the job itself, and Dean’s whining was rapidly becoming an unnecessary distraction.

Dean’s lips tightened, but he kept his mouth shut as he sensed his father’s evaporating patience.

At long last, Dean was dressed except for the clip on bow tie that he fumbled with blindly for a moment before finally using the exterior mirror to guide his fingers.

“You good on the plan?” John asked.

Dean resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He and John had already been over the plan at least as many times as Dean had complained about his outfit for the damn thing.

“Yup,” Dean nodded and straightened his bowtie. “Play nice and serve shitty food until you give the signal, then I sneak upstairs and relieve our host of the human skin grimoire and go back to serving shitty food until we can get the fuck out of here and burn the damn thing.”

John gave him a hard look.

“If you get caught -”

“If I get caught, I’m screwed, I know. These assholes are rich enough to have half the cops in their pockets and evil enough to have no problem playing ‘torture the hunter’ for a nightcap.”

John looked him over, sighed, and nodded.

Dean tried not to resent it. His father had always been paranoid and over-protective and convinced that everything was about to fall into a pile of shit. 

Ever since Sam had left for Stanford four months ago, however, John had only gotten worse. In pretty much every way. Sometimes it felt like Dean needed to ask John for permission to even breathe, and sometimes he went three weeks without hearing from his father or even knowing if he was still alive.

Fun times.

This was actually the first job they had worked together, after John took off to tear a hole through every monster on the west coast when Sam headed to Palo Alto and after John sent Dean on a string of truly shitty but hardly dangerous hunts in Florida and Alabama.

So, Dean stowed his crap, since John wasn’t going to stow  _ his _ , and pasted on his best fake smile.

“Ready to go, old man?”

John’s lips twitched, which was as close to ‘soft’ as his face ever got. He nodded, clapped Dean on the shoulder, and opened the door on his side of the truck.

Dean made his own exit from the vehicle and they went their separate ways without another glance - Dean to the back of the mansion/villa/whatever the fuck you called a place with twelve bedrooms and three dining rooms while John went around to the front in his guise as ‘guest’.

It was damn easy to worm his way into the staff - between the hired caterers and the permanent staff, one very helpful, very charming guy was easy to overlook. Dean helped a few harried looking guys unload the last of the booze from a refrigerated truck and then found someone with a clipboard and asked for his ‘next’ duty.

Two hours passed with brain numbing slowness.

Dean passed out champagne, mini-quiches - those actually tasted awesome and about a dozen had made their way into his mouth instead of into the mouths of the yuppie assholes he was supposed to be serving - and some kind of weird smelling lobster-mushroom thing with green shit on top of it. He gave everyone a bland smile, except for the hot ladies who gave him appraising glances - those he winked at - and the caterer with the pot. That guy, Alex, he’d introduced himself as when he split a joint with him out back, hand lingering on Dean’s wrist and eyes fixed on Dean’s mouth. That guy, Dean gave a genuine smile and the number from one of his burner phones. 

But then, finally, Dean was making another round through the press of perfumed bodies in expensive clothes when his eyes locked with John’s, across the room and with his arm around the waist of some blonde haired woman practically drowning in diamonds. John lifted the rocks glass of whiskey in his hand up to his mouth, took a long sip, and tapped one finger against the rim of the glass.

That was their agreed on ‘get to it’ signal - as opposed to the ‘ not yet’ or ‘abandon ship’ signals.

Dean still had half a dozen weird ass things on the serving platter in his hands - something that smelled like citrus but looked like braided pastry balls and… pass. All of the passes, Dean had decided after watching Alex shove three into his mouth at one time and grimace.

He got rid of the things, pawning them off on the unsuspecting yuppies, and then made his way out of the ‘grand hall’ - because this was the kind of place that had a room they actually called the  _ grand hall _ \- and dropped his tray off in the kitchen before casually making his way through the darkened hallways of the house that were off-limits to the party-goers.

The library was a two-storey deal, with an entrance on the main floor of the house and another on the second, and Dean had memorized the ground plan of the estate with John the day before. What wasn’t on the ground plans was the hidden room and secret entrance to said room, concealed on the second floor of the library. Those details had come courtesy of Bobby Singer, who had heard from a friend of a friend that a coven of witches in Atlanta, Georgia were getting up to some seriously fucked up shit.

Dean entered the library cautiously, but it didn’t look like anyone had ditched the party to take advantage of the dark-wood panelled room with its spacious leather furniture, reading desks and soft amber lighting.

He couldn’t help but think that Sam would have loved it, couldn’t help but wish this job had been six months ago, then Sam would have been suffering through it with him, probably as a cater-waiter too, and they could be doing this part together.

Dean scowled at himself. He was being such a fucking girl, and he had a job to do.

A spiral staircase led up to the second floor, and Dean made his way up.

Bobby had said the room and the entrance would be pretty obvious, something about air currents and the position of the sun - which wasn’t all that fucking helpful since it was nighttime and the air felt stale and still.

So Dean resorted to running his fingers over the edges of the bookshelves, pressing and pulling, trying to tease out anything that didn’t belong.

And - 

“Yahtzee,” Dean breathed when the shelf under his hands gave a little tremble when he tugged.

From there, it was easy to find the door pull - hidden behind Dante, because rich people weren’t at all clever and witches… seriously, lame.

And then Dean was in a seriously fucked up room, with animal skulls and vials of creepy shit and a fireplace that was lit and roaring - and that seriously just wasn’t safe - and… sitting in a place of prominence, a small, dark book that looked like it was bound in leather.

Dean scowled as he looked at it. Definitely not leather.

He unbuttoned his vest and the shirt underneath to get at the ziplock bag and cotton fabric safety pinned to his undershirt. He used the fabric to pick up the grimoire, put it in the bag, sealed it, and started to wrap the bundle up with the cotton.

“If I’d known the staff were in the habit of serving refreshments in the library I would have put in an order.”

The voice was a drawl, warm and slow and amused and it sent a chill down Dean’s spine.

_ What the fuck? _ He hadn’t even heard anyone and now -

Slowly, he put the wrapped grimoire back on the table and turned to face the man at his back.

About Dean’s own height, but broader and more solidly built, the man was probably closer to John’s age than Dean’s. He had dark blond hair, tan skin, pale blue eyes, and a wide mouth curved in a smirk.

He definitely wasn’t in the coven - Dean and John had tabs on all of them and plans to deal with them - but he also definitely wasn’t anyone Dean trusted, as in John or Sam or Bobby.

Dean licked his lips, wondering how in the shit he was going to get out of this without leaving behind a body.

The man arched an eyebrow expectantly.

“Well,” Dean smiled, flashed his teeth and did the thing with his eyes that usually had people swooning, “I’m sure I can get you whatever you want.”

The man snorted a laugh and raised the glass in his hand - champagne - and took a slow sip.

“You do seem to be the resourceful sort,” the man said, southern accent giving his words a honeyed pitch and making Dean’s mouth go a little dry.

He had a thing for southern drawls. Sue him.

“Anything you’re in the mood for?” Dean asked.

The man’s pale blue eyes flicked over Dean’s face, lingered on his lips and then met Dean’s gaze again and - 

Oh.

Oh shit.

Well. 

Dean could work with this.

The man stepped into the room, gave a cursory glance at their surroundings, eyes and lips tightening as he took in the macabre decor. He gave the cotton bundle on the table a longer look, and then set his glass down next to it and stepped in close to Dean.

“I suppose that depends entirely on what the menu offers,” the man said, his breath hot and sharp near Dean’s cheek.

Dean struggled to swallow and then forced himself to smile.

“We pride ourselves on being, ah, very full service,” Dean managed.

Another amused snort and then a shake of his head.

“As enticing as you are, I can’t say I’ve ever found the thought of forcing myself on someone very attractive. However,” his eyes hardened and his smile went a little cold, “it would be a poor show of hospitality for my host if I just let  _ this _ go unnoticed.”

That… didn’t sound too awesome. At all.

Dean eased one hand towards his pocket. He didn’t have a weapon within easy reach - the knife on his left ankle was definitely too far away - but he had his phone, and he could send John a text to let him know shit was about to hit the fan and to get the fuck out of this place.

Before he could reach his phone, however, the man’s hand was on his wrist, holding him still with an iron grip.

“Turn around,” the man said.

“Excuse me?” Dean had taken on a lot of monsters in his time… one seriously built guy shouldn’t be that… impossible, right?

“Turn around, put your hands on the table, and take your punishment for getting caught.”

“Caught? Look, dude, I’m just here doing my job and -”

“I am quite sure you are,” the man agreed, amused and warm again. “But I daresay you could be doing your job  _ better _ , hm?”

That… that stung and Dean flushed. Because yeah, yeah he’d been caught out by this asshole so… he sure as hell could be doing his job better.

“I think a lesson might encourage you to improve. Some discipline? When’s the last time you had a good spanking, boy?”

And…

Holy

Fucking

Shit.

Dean kind of… forgot to breathe for a minute.

He licked his lips, met the man’s gaze, saw the amusement still there and the darker edge of something else, something that sure as hell mirrored what Dean felt tangled in himself.

Spanking.

Yeah. That was…

He turned around, put his hands on the table and even went so far as to spread his legs a bit.

The man chuckled and Dean felt his cheeks flush.

“Well, well,” the man said and ran one palm down Dean’s back and over the curve of his ass. “At least you’re obedient, hm?”

Dean closed his eyes and reminded himself that he  _ had to breathe _ .

John might have dealt with Sam taking off by taking off himself, burying himself in hunts and drowning himself in whiskey, but Dean had taken a different path to deal with the abandonment. Namely, sex. A lot of it, and one thing had led to another had led to Dean spending a weekend tied up in a bedroom in Nashville and a very thorough, very unexpected education at the hands of a gorgeous guy naked Malachi. 

“Sometimes,” Dean agreed and it earned him another chuckle and a sudden, sharp smack to his ass.

Dean gasped in surprise and rocked towards the table and - fucking hell, was he  _ already _ getting hard?

Yeah. Yeah he fucking was.

“Now, we’ve got breaking and entering, dereliction of your catering duties and, worst of all, getting  _ caught _ \- does that cover everything, boy?”

Dean made a miserable noise of agreement.

The man tsked.

“Thirty, I think. Do you agree?”

It was…

It was the guy asking for consent, in a really weird, really fucked up way. In a really weird, really,  _ really _ fucked up situation.

“Yeah. Sounds good,” Dean said, panted, really, because  _ how was he this hard already? _

“Pants down, then. I want to make sure you feel this.”

Oh, Dean was gonna feel this alright. Already was and nothing had even happened yet.

He fumbled for his belt and the fly of his pants, managed to get them free and shove them down and -

“No underwear?” The man tsked again. “I believe we’ll add another five for that.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Dean nodded, eager, so damn eager and desperate and -

The man brought his hand down, hard enough to elicit a  _ crack _ of skin against skin and Dean scrambled to get his hands back on the table and brace himself.

“Count,” he instructed.

“One,” Dean croaked.

Another blow, this one just as hard and Dean dug his fingers into the table.

_ Fucking hell _ .

The man cleared his throat.

“Two.”

And so it went, each blow a solid hit, the man alternating between the left and right cheeks of Dean’s ass, his hand sometimes drifting to the top of Dean’s thighs, but each blow relentless.

By thirty, Dean was almost bent over the table, and he was fucking  _ crying _ , eyes burning and cheeks wet and he was pretty sure he’d bitten into his bottom lip.

“Thirty-five,” Dean finally sobbed.

The man’s hand was instantly back on Dean’s ass, the pressure making Dean flinch because everything felt hot and tight and fucking painful and it was  _ amazing _ .

“Very nicely done, boy,” the man praised, voice still that warm drawl that curled into Dean just as deliriously as the pain from the spanking. “Turn around for me.”

Dean straightened up, shaky and chest heaving with uneven breaths, and turned.

The man’s eyes traced over his face, taking in Dean’s tears and red cheeks and bitten lips and then - then he looked down and his smirk because a full, wide smile that revealed even white teeth.

Dean closed his eyes, feeling equal parts humiliated and aroused because… yeah.

Yeah, his dick was hard enough to pound nails and dripping wet and he’d just had his ass spanked for god knew how long.

“What should we do about that, hm?” The man asked.

Dean’s eyes flew open.

“I, uh, what?” Dean echoed clumsily, feeling slow and so, so warm.

The man was still smiling, and it made his whole face - already really damn attractive - even more so. Dean kind of never wanted to look away.

And what the fuck was up with  _ that _ ?

“Do you want me to take care of your rather lovely erection?” The man asked.

“Uh, sure, knock yourself out,” Dean muttered.

The man laughed and sank to his knees in front of Dean and - 

Okay. That - that was a damn fine sight.

And then the man licked Dean’s dick and Dean was pretty sure… what? This whole thing was some kind of Djinn dreamscape?

Because what in the hell?

The man’s mouth opened wide, sucked Dean down in one languid motion that brought the man’s mouth down to meet Dean’s neatly trimmed pubic hair and introduced Dean’s extremely happy dick to the man’s very tight throat.

“Holy fuck,” Dean gasped, hands going to the man’s shoulders and fingers scrabbling for purchase because - 

It wasn’t so much a blow job as it was the man fucking himself onto Dean’s cock, his mouth tight and hot and wet and his motions quick and hard and so fucking  _ good _ .,

“I’m - fuck, I -”

The man made absolutely no move to pull away and really, really quickly Dean was hurtling towards orgasm and then he was there, the world narrowed down to that tight heat and the burn of his ass and the coil of pleasure in his balls and then it was all exploding and Dean was left shaking and gasping and clinging to the man.

And then Dean was blinking back tears and staring at the man while he rose to his feet and licked cum from his lips and hummed appreciatively.

“Well, I hope you’ve learned your lesson, boy” he said.

“Uh.” Was all Dean could manage.

The man smiled again, that same open expression from before that made Dean’s already pounding heart skip a beat.

He lifted one hand and curved it around Dean’s cheek.

“Best get what you came for and find your way out. The FBI will be arriving in less than an hour to… address a few other infractions I’ve discovered.”

It took Dean maybe a solid minute to process those words.

And then he was scrambling to pull up his pants and edging away from the man - as if he called himself and FBI agent.

The man simply picked up his champagne glass again and took another sip while Dean fumbled to put himself to rights.

He actually forgot about the grimoire, was halfway done buttoning up his vest when the man cleared his throat and gave the wrapped book a pointed look.

Dean flushed.

“Who the hell are you?” He asked as he struggled to undo the buttons he had  _ just done _ .

“Benoit Blanc,” the man said, casual and confident and expectant.

As if Dean would know his name, would know him.

And -

“Oh fuck,” Dean breathed.

Because, yeah, he  _ did _ know that name. Did know that man. 

Just like Dean had been obsessed with reading those Harlan Thrombey mystery thrillers all through his teenage years, Dean had been just as obsessed with Benoit Blanc, famed modern day detective who probably would have been more at home forty years ago than in today’s world.

But…

“And who might you be, boy?” The man -  _ Benoit Blanc _ \- asked.

“Dean,” he said before he could give it much,  _ any _ , thought.

“A pleasure to meet you, Dean,” Blanc said. He held out a hand.

Dean shook it and couldn’t help blushing when Blanc smiled again.

Fucking hell. He was acting like Sam when the kid had been fifteen and crushing hard on a girl and all desperate for Dean’s advice on how to tell if she liked him.

“Best move along, Dean,” Blanc said after giving Dean’s hand a squeeze and releasing him.

“Right. Right.”

Because the FBI were on their way.

Dean shoved the book against his chest, did up his dress shirt and then his vest and only then realized his bowtie was gone.

Fuck it.

He was halfway out of the door when Blanc spoke again.

“Oh, and Dean?”

He turned around, saw Blanc leaning back against the table and staring at Dean as if he could consume him with his eyes alone.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t be so easy to catch next time. I’d hate for this lesson to have been wasted.”

Dean swallowed hard, nodded.

“Yeah. I - yeah.”

And then he fled.

One SOS text to his father and ten minutes later, he and John were in the truck getting the hell out of dodge.

John, thankfully, didn’t comment on Dean’s constant, uneasy shifting in the passenger seat as he tried and failed to get comfortable.

Two days later, the grimoire was disposed of, and Dean had finally managed to snap a few decent photos of the bruises on his ass so he could admire them after they faded away.

And he had to wonder, had to hope, that he’d encounter Benoit Blanc again.

-o-

  
  


**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [this is me trying](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25617340) by [Flowerparrish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flowerparrish/pseuds/Flowerparrish)




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